


On a Night Like This

by J (jaywright)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 22:25:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19365076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaywright/pseuds/J
Summary: "Don’t you ever feel like you need a break from it all?""From what, exactly?""It."  He waved his hand in a way that encompassed the shop, London, the world, the universe, possibly even himself.  "All."





	On a Night Like This

Crowley slept, but usually he worked at it.

It was a process, the closing of his eyes, the stilling of his mind, expending the sort of effort that a demon had to put into anything that fell even remotely into the human sphere of experience, and sometimes it was more worth it than others. But this time, this quiet, still, expectant night, he found himself barely putting in any work at all. It had been so cozy in the soft warm dimness of the bookshop that rest had come to him almost unbidden. He'd set his glass down, tipped his head against the arm of the couch, and closed his eyes, listening to the quiet shuffle of pages, the occasional low tuneless humming, and sometimes the clink of a glass against the desk. He slept.

It was the silence that woke him. He curled onto his side, stretching without opening his eyes, and he felt more than heard Aziraphale's quiet laugh.

"Good morning, sunshine."

Crowley's eyes snapped open to find Aziraphale inches from them, watching him intently. He squeezed them shut again, letting out a groan. "No, 't's not morning, is it?"

"It's not," Aziraphale admitted. "You only dropped off for a bit."

"Well, it would have been longer," Crowley grumbled, "if you weren't all - " he waved his hands, " - _there_." He blinked his eyes open again, and found Aziraphale retreating to his desk chair, looking mildly abashed.

"I'm sorry," he said, "it's just...it's not something I see often, you know." He rested his hand on his chin and regarded Crowley. "Do you...like it?" He finally asked, and his voice had a low and tired quality to it, almost unfamiliar. 

"Wouldn’t do it if I didn’t, would I?" Crowley asked.

"I don’t know, you do plenty of things you don’t particularly like to do."

"Yes, well. Mostly because you make me."

Aziraphale smiled. "I doubt there is a creature on this planet who could convince you to do anything you didn't want to do, Crowley."

There was, Crowley didn't point out, but only one. He stretched his legs out, swinging them down so he was almost upright, but not quite. "It's nice, is all," he said. "Sleeping. Don’t you ever feel like you need a break from it all?"

"From what, exactly?"

"It." He waved his hand in a way that encompassed the shop, London, the world, the universe, possibly even himself. "All."

"No." Aziraphale sounded faintly offended at the suggestion.

"Bless you, angel."

He eyed Crowley closely. "Does it work?"

"Work how?" 

"Do you...forget?"

Crowley's laugh is nothing like a laugh at all. "Forget? No. Never."

"Then…"

"Why do you eat?"

"Ah." Aziraphale's response was slow, considering. "Enjoyment, then. And...a connection, I suppose. To humanity, to the way they sense and interact with the world. It's a bit more of a romantic notion than I'd expect from you, I'll admit, wanting to feel the things that they feel."

"We'll never feel what they feel, darling," Crowley objected, "doesn't matter how many pieces of sushi you eat. I don't know that I'd even want to. It seems so...messy."

"But there's some part of you…"

"Maybe. I don't know. Maybe I'm just tired. Temptation and corruption is exhausting work, you know. What even brought this on?" He eyed Aziraphale closely. "Do you need a nap?"

Aziraphale chuckled. "Need, no. I'm just...curious."

"Too curious for your own good." His tone was joking, but it wasn't the first time he'd voiced the sentiment, not the first time he'd wanted to somehow shield Aziraphale from the long-suspended consequences of his own inquisitiveness.

"Perhaps."

On another night, he might not push. With more space between them and the end of the world - maybe with more space between _them_ , even - but there was something about this moment that made it feel like the last time they may ever feel safe and warm and pleasantly drunken together in a very, very long time, so he said, "Yes, well. We all know what happens when we go too far down that road, don't we?"

Aziraphale looked faintly amused. "You're not implying that I would Fall for simply taking a bit of a snooze, are you?"

" 'course not. Sleep if you want to sleep, angel. Seems to be the least of our transgressions, these days."

"I don't _transgress_!"

"No? So all these books, you don't covet them? Idolize them, perhaps?"

"I - "

Crowley snapped his fingers, and the bookshelves disappeared. The pained sound Aziraphale let out twisted something in the space where his heart might have been, so he snapped again immediately, blinking the books back into existence (maybe with a few additions hidden among them as a form of atonement). 

"That's unfair, Crowley."

"Fair or not," Crowley said, "we all push the boundaries here and there, don't we? First day I met you," he pointed out, "you were lying to Her. And you've never stopped."

"Lying! I never!"

"'Oh,'" Crowley said, stretching out his voice into a mockery of Aziraphale's, "'I don't know _where_ that flaming sword has got to! I haven't the _slightest_ about those temptations that happened in Brighton! A demon? In _my_ shop? Heaven forfend!'"

Aziraphale's face went through a whole journey of expressions - defensiveness, annoyance, faint amusement - before settling on a scrutiny so deep that it would have made a lesser demon squirm. "Crowley." His voice was soft and low and mildly fuzzy from the wine. "Are you...worried about me?"

"No," Crowley said automatically. "No!" Aziraphale kept looking, his expression melting into a gentle fondness, and the silence stretched out between them until Crowley finally muttered, "Maybe. No. I don't know. It's not as though you've never worried for me, though, is it? 'Oh, I couldn't _possibly_ give you holy water, what if you _dissolve_ yourself?'"

"That's different," Aziraphale said, a bit stiffly.

"Is it?"

"Of course it is. That was no trivial matter, Crowley. One slip, and you'd be _gone_. Truly gone. And I - " Aziraphale's voice broke, and Crowley almost regretted starting this. Or if not starting, then at least continuing whatever it was that Aziraphale had started. When he continued, his voice was low and tremulous, like if he spoke quietly enough, perhaps he could hold the smiting at bay. "If I did ever...get too curious. If I was ever - well. It wouldn't be _that_ , would it? It wouldn't be the worst possible scenario. I'd still be here. I'd still be…" He didn't look at Crowley, turning instead to pour himself a large glass of wine from the new bottle that had materialized in front of him. "Here," he repeated definitively, and the "with you" was nearly too soft for Crowley to catch.

"Oh." Crowley felt a visceral wave of fear, a tight grip around his chest. "No. Aziraphale, _no_." He sat up and leaned in, planting his hands on Aziraphale's knees, looking up at him from where he was sunken into the couch. "You want the worst possible scenario? There it is. You've found it. You, - " He broke off, because the word _Fallen_ had never stopped hurting, and the thought of it applying to Aziraphale was too much, far too much.

"Oh dear." Aziraphale reached to touch his face. "I _have_ upset you, haven't I? I didn't mean it, Crowley, not really. It was only speculation." He took his hand back and looked at Crowley intently. "I do believe your little nap has made you far too serious, dear."

"Well, end of the world and all, I suppose," Crowley said, trying for breezy and coming down more in the vicinity of falsely glib. "No time like the present for sobriety." He gestured his own glass of wine into being and drank from it deeply with a mocking lift of his eyebrows, and he was gratified by the way the corner of Aziraphale's mouth turned up in a tiny almost indulgent smile. They sat quietly for the next few minutes, Crowley settling back into the couch and thinking dark thoughts while Aziraphale turned the pages in his book without seeming to see them.

"Do you ever wonder…" Aziraphale said finally without looking up from his book, "what might have happened if we'd known each other...before?"

"Before," Crowley repeated. "We've known each other six thousand years. That covers before most things." He kept his words deliberately obtuse, something in him needing Aziraphale to be the one to say it.

"No," Aziraphale said, looking up to meet his eyes in a way that made Crowley want to make his glasses reappear. " _Before_."

Crowley looked away, not wanting to respond. Wondered? Oh, he'd wondered. He'd imagined hundreds of scenarios, thousands, but none of them led here, led to him clutching a wine glass too hard on Aziraphale's couch, more comfortable than he had any right to be in the shadow of the apocalypse - or ever - and for that reason, none of those scenarios had felt at all worth pursuing. "Do you?" he asked.

"No." Aziraphale's answer was so simple and uncomplicated that Crowley's eyes snapped back to him.

"No?" he repeated. "Just like that? Not laboring under the illusion you could have _saved_ me, or something?"

Aziraphale looked faintly disgusted. "Saved you? Lord, no. It wouldn't have been you I 'saved,' anyhow, would it? It'd have been...him." The name hung unspoken but tangible between them until he continued. "I don't even know him, and I have no interest in it, if it means not knowing you."

"Oh." Crowley couldn't blush, at least it was never one of the human things that he'd ever put any effort into trying, but the feeling that suffused him felt exactly like he imagined it did when Aziraphale's cheeks went pink and his nose wrinkled up in pleasure. "Well. Thanks for that, I suppose." He sipped at his wine. "You see, then. Why I…" he didn't want to say _worry_. Admitting it once had been more than enough. "Why I have concerns."

Aziraphale's smile was soft. "It's nice to know you care, dear."

"Care!" Crowley scoffed. "Caring isn't remotely in my job description."

"Best this isn't part of your job, then."

Crowley grumbled wordlessly for a moment before resettling himself on the couch, stretching out an inviting arm magnanimously towards Aziraphale. "Well," he said, "come on, then. You want to try out this sleeping thing, or don't you?"

"Oh. I. Well." Aziraphale shifted in his chair. "Right here?"

"You haven't got a bed, have you? I suppose we could fix that - "

"No, no," Aziraphale interrupted. "Waste of space. I can't imagine I'd make much use of it."

"Well, then." Crowley patted the couch beside him. It was suddenly wider than it had been, deeper and more luxurious, making him sprawl back even more absurdly than he already had been. Aziraphale was almost tentative as he stood, making an elaborate show of brushing some invisible lint from his trousers, and leaving his wine glass on the desk.

"I'm not sure exactly how one is to go about this," he muttered as he padded across the floor and settled himself gingerly on the edge of the couch as if it might leap up and nip at him if he moved too quickly. 

"Well," Crowley said, "first off, one is to relax, which seems like the least likely course of events, having met you, so I'm not quite sure how much we're really going to accomplish, here." He reached for Aziraphale and tugged at him, expecting him to be stiff and uncomfortable, but he yielded easily to Crowley's touch, letting himself tip back and stretch out until his head was pillowed lightly against Crowley's lap, his legs curling toward the other end of the couch. "Ah." The word came out as barely a breath, and Crowley had to clear his throat. "Not so bad, then."

"Hmm." Aziraphale's voice was slightly muffled. "Not bad at all. Nothing new, granted, but - "

"And now," Crowley interrupted, reaching to place a finger against Aziraphale's lips, "we're quiet."

"Hmmph." Aziraphale objected. "I don't know how good I will be at that, I'll admit." His words were slurred by the continued press of Crowley's finger.

"No way to know but to try, angel," Crowley pointed out.

Aziraphale fell silent for a few moments, and Crowley drew his hand back, draping his arm first across the back of the couch, and then letting it fall, curling against Aziraphale's side. Aziraphale stayed still and quiet until Crowley's own eyelids began drooping heavily, but he wasn't surprised in the slightest when Aziraphale's voice broke the silence.

"Should something be happening, then?"

Crowley sighed. "Not if you keep on like this, it shouldn't."

Aziraphale burrowed his face against Crowley's leg. "I don't know, Crowley. Maybe this is one of those luxuries that I should leave to you, like automobiles and botany."

Crowley chuckled. "Well, if you're going to be defeatist about it," he conceded. "This was your idea," he reminded him. "If you'd like to get up and put on a record and read your book all night, there is nothing stopping you."

"No," Aziraphale agreed, but his voice was soft and rounded at the edges, "I suppose there isn't." He fell silent again, and Crowley could feel the effort he was putting into taking slow, even breaths, tense even in his attempt at relaxation. It wasn't getting him closer to sleep, but it was soothing, somehow, the gentle rise and fall of his shoulder against Crowley's leg, the artificial but somehow comforting rhythm, and Crowley let his other hand drop to his lap, the fingers curling into Aziraphale's hair.

"Oh." It was barely a word, breathed out against the fabric of his trousers, but he could feel Aziraphale's whole body deflate at the sensation of Crowley's fingers tracing lightly over his scalp. "Yes, well." He curled into himself a little more, becoming somehow heavier against Crowley's lap. "That's...nice."

"Hmm," Crowley agreed. He let his head tip back against the back of the couch, and was nearly asleep when he heard Aziraphale's voice again, as if from a distance.

"Do you dream?"

"No." The answer was automatic, unpracticed, but Crowley was awake again, painfully, uncomfortably awake, Aziraphale still curled gently against his lap, his fingers splayed like he was in the last seconds of consciousness.

"Pity."

"That's not what you're looking for out of this, is it?"

"Hmm?" Aziraphale's eyes opened sluggishly, his head barely tilting to look up at Crowley. "No, no. Not me. I think I spend enough time dreaming while I'm awake, thank you." He gave a tremendous yawn. "Just thought it'd've been nice, is all. For you." He curled into himself again, his hand tucking up against Crowley's thigh, warm and grounding. "To have something...good."

Crowley wanted to flinch at that, to object, but he was so warm, pressed there against the sofa by Aziraphale's weight, and Aziraphale was so soft and trusting against him, and all he could do was give a breathy laugh, press his hand against Aziraphale's side, and lean in to whisper, "I do, angel," against his hair.

Aziraphale's fingers tightened briefly, like an acknowledgement, and then he was still, quiet, the strained attempt at steady breathing gone, just a silent and relaxed being pressing warmly against Crowley, weighing him into the couch in a way that should have been constricting, but was instead freeing. There was nowhere to go, nothing to do, not until he could do it without disturbing this moment, so the apocalypse was just going to have to wait until his angel woke up.

He closed his eyes, and for the first time in millennia, he fell into an effortless sleep. When he woke in the morning, it was to the sounds of a cheerfully puttering Aziraphale, and he lay awake for a moment enjoying the sunlight darting through the windows of the shop, stretching and wishing that skin trapped heat the same way that scales could.

It was only then that he glanced up, and his eyes caught the corner of a bed, just barely visible through the door of a room that had appeared at the top of a newly curving staircase in the corner of the shop. "Waste of space," he repeated to himself, and his laughter was what brought Aziraphale in to greet him, beautifully rested and dazzling in the sunlight.


End file.
